Switched Around
by Mistflyer1102
Summary: A serial killer stalking the streets of New York City is careful to clearly define his target profile for the NYPD... so it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes very long to realize that he is settled comfortably within the killer's crosshairs.
1. End

**I**

**End**

* * *

"Stop, stop, _stop!"_

The music within the empty concert hall came to a jarring halt as the conductor nearly fell of his stand in his agitation. Grant Miller, one of the secondary violinists, lowered his violin for what felt like the sixtieth time that night, feeling the irritation slowly creeping up into his veins again. This particular dress rehearsal for the holiday concert was proving to be exceptionally difficult, and Grant, a usually patient man, somehow just _knew_ that this was going to be another one of _those_ nights, where he was going to require a little… medicated assistance to help him along to the next day.

Well, at least he was going to see his dealer tonight anyway.

"All right, that will be it for tonight," the conductor said tiredly, checking his watch; he'd already kept the men and women of the orchestra for eight hours, and he could no doubt already tell that there was going to be a mutiny if he wasn't careful. "We'll resume our work for tomorrow," he said before waving at the musicians in dismissal.

_Thank you_.

"Hey, Miller. Do you think you could stick around for a drink?" Max, one of the cellists, said, looking up as Grant passed him.

"No, sorry. I still can't stomach that swill you Americans call 'beer'," Grant replied, still in a somewhat good mood as he pulled out his violin case to put the instrument away. "Besides, I have a meeting later tonight."

"That's too bad, a bunch of us were going to try out that bar that opened down the street," Max said, leaning against his own instrument.

"Well, I'll take a rain check if that makes you feel better," Grant said as he snapped the violin case closed.

"Boring. Were you this boring when you still lived in London?" Max asked, clearly disgruntled at the denial. "C'mon, that's what you said last week."

"I know, and I'm still tired this week. Surprise, surprise," Grant said, picking up the violin case. Nodding to the cello, he said, "You should put that away before Lou gets to it first."

Swearing, Max turned to go defend his cello from his fellow cellist, and Grant took that opportunity to leave the stage. Of course Grant became boring once he moved to the United States, his childhood friend Sean, who worked in a London hospital, hadn't been able to join him and work in New York instead.

Perhaps it was for the best, in the end. Sean wouldn't have to see Grant's slow descent back into the pit that had already claimed him once.

The night air outside was sharp and cold, biting exposed skin as he stepped out of the performance hall, and he briefly worried about his violin, still firmly gripped at his side and sealed in its case. But it was only a brief, passing concern; another, more sinister craving had begun to worm its way to the front of his head, one that he'd tried to shake before but failed miserably. He welcomed this new sensation with open arms.

He paused the ATM long enough to withdraw cash for a cup of coffee and the goods he was expecting his contact to bring to their long – overdue rendezvous.

The Sidewalk Café was still bustling with activity despite the late hour. Grant flashed an easy, charismatic smile at Marietta, his favorite waitress of the night-shift staff, and then took his usual table. A former resident of the Bronx, Marietta had moved to Manhattan after her last relationship had gone south, and she, as she put it when they first met, was starting over. She'd expressed interest in him at first, but he very politely turned her down; he didn't have a girlfriend and nor did he want one. Despite this, Marietta had learned fast that she still held some degree of power over him.

As usual though, he didn't speak until Marietta approached him.

"I guess you want your usual?" she asked in a low voice, trying not to betray herself by glancing at her manager, who was talking to another customer up at the counter.

"Yes. Same food, same company," he replied.

She narrowed her eyes. "He never eats it."

"But you still get paid to mind our table," he reminded her.

"Yes, with measly little tips. You still have a tab here, remember?" she whispered furiously. "I _still_ don't know why I constantly cover for you…"

"Because you can't resist me and the sound of my violin," Grant teased, opening the instrument case and pulling out the violin. "You and the other patrons."

"Your violin can't pay your bill here," she snapped before turning around and stalking back to the counter to get the requested orders.

Grant tried not to sigh with irritation, but otherwise tried not to let it bother him. She was going to be difficult until he paid the damn bill… and stopped using recreational drugs. She'd used to threaten to expose his little jaunts here to her manager, but that ended once Grant pointed out that doing that would also expose the fact that she'd known about them all along and did nothing to stop it.

But music always soothed her. He could humor her with a little song or two until his contact arrived. He mentally considered his choices, and then selected her favorite song and began to play.

His hypothesis was proved correct when she returned with a sandwich for him and his friend, and a coffee for both, and she was smiling softly and humming along to the tune. "Thank you," she said grudgingly as she set the tray down and then left.

Grant just rolled his eyes but kept playing.

"Long time no see, Miller."

Grant stopped playing the violin as soon as he heard the all too familiar voice of his visitor. "Chaz. Long time no see," he said, lowering and then packing away the violin, not caring if he only got five to ten minutes of actual playing in before the interruption.

"Likewise." For a successful drug dealer, Chaz seemed very close to the stereotypical American when he wanted to be: loud, obnoxious, and an overall pain in the arse. But he sure as hell knew his business and goods, and Grant had been quite glad to find him not too long after his arrival a few years ago. Drugs were hard to find in the United States when one didn't know exactly where to look. Chaz tilted his head at Grant for a moment and then said, "I take it you want your usual?"

"Assuming you still have some left," Grant replied, knowing very well that since it was a Friday evening, Chaz was likely to have a low supply since he always restocked on Monday mornings, bright and early.

"Lucky for you, I do," Chaz said, reaching into his backpack, which he'd stowed under the table. Pulling out a small cardboard box, he pushed it across the table. "I know this is short notice, but I'm telling you now that I'm moving my operations to Brooklyn."

Grant paused, his hand still wrapped around his wallet under the table. "What do you mean?"

Chaz sighed impatiently. "I'm moving the center of my business to Brooklyn. It's getting too risky to continue operating here in Manhattan," he said.

"How come?"

Chaz glanced at the manager, who was laughing with another customer now. "Have you heard of Ian Carlson?" he finally asked in a low voice.

"Who _hasn't_?" Grant whispered back. It had been the buzz of the town when Ian Carlson, a thirty – six year old violin teacher at one of the private Catholic high schools in the area, had turned up dead in his small apartment six days ago. He'd also been a recovering drug addict, something the police somehow found out about despite the fact that _no one else _had known that about Ian. "What about him?" Grant asked.

"The police have this private consultant guy they're using in the investigation, and they managed to figure out through this guy that I was Carlson's old drug dealer. The cops were crawling all over my place earlier today while their smartass consultant kept pestering me with questions. That was all the convincing _I_ needed to get the hell out of dodge while I still could," Chaz said grimly. "It was like the consultant could see straight into my soul and past. It was _freaky_."

Grant shuddered. "How'd you avoid arrest?" he asked.

Chaz shrugged. "They had a search warrant, but they didn't find anything. I never keep my stuff at my apartment. But like I said, I just wanna go before the cops decide to come back for some reason or another," he said. Tapping the cardboard box on the table between them, he said, "You want your next hit, you have to come to Brooklyn to get it."

"You're not going to send me your new address, are you?" Grant asked, trying not to sigh with irritation.

Chaz shrugged. "Don't want to leave a trail the cops can follow. Besides, you can take this as your perfect opportunity to quit," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"A drug dealer with morals? You'll drive yourself out of business if you haven't already, assuming you keep that up," Grant remarked, sipping his coffee.

"If I had morals, I'd be sending all the names of my clients to the police so they're the cops' problems now," Chaz said, picking at his food. "So obviously, my morals aren't _quite_ that strong."

"Whatever you say then," Grant said, pushing his money across the table and pulling the box closer to him in one fluid movement. "I'll just track you down between concerts then, I'll need something to do in my spare time anyway."

Chaz sighed, but otherwise didn't contradict him. "Whatever makes you happy. Try not to bring the cops with you," he said, reaching over to collect the money. Standing up, he said, "As ever, it was a pleasure doing business with you."

Grant just nodded in silence and leaned back as he watched Chaz leave the small diner without another word.

Both men knew very well that Grant would be able to locate Chaz without any problem in the end.

"What a horrid man," Marietta remarked as she returned to the table, scowling in the direction of Chaz's retreat. "He's slowly killing you, you know," she said, frowning at Grant. "I really wish that –"

"I appreciate your concern Marietta, but it really is none of your business," Grant said, standing up and pulling on his heavy jacket. Glancing out at the slow snowfall, he said, "I really should be getting home before it's impossible to walk through this muck."

Marietta sighed, and Grant was pleased that she was still the type of girl to know a losing battle when she saw one. He preferred those. "Fine," she said. "But pay your bill next time, and if you don't, I _will_ tell the manager about this."

"You'll still be in trouble for not telling him in the first place," Grant pointed out.

She smiled innocently. "Not if I spin the story correctly. Besides, whom do you think he's going to believe: a drug – addicted customer or a clean employee? Do the math," she whispered in a low voice, narrowing her eyes.

Instead of admitting that he had no response to that, Grant chose to pretend not to honor her with one by snatching his violin case and turning on his heel, stalking out of the small diner. Pulling his collar forward with one hand and his cap down to ward off the snow, he hunched his shoulders forward, slipping back into his usual (honest) persona of the struggling orchestra musician. His bill at the diner wasn't the only one that was going to be overdue soon, and the others were more likely to create harder problems if they weren't paid on time.

He was facing _eviction_ for God's sake, how could Marietta expect him to pay the damn food bill if he couldn't even pay his landlord?

This next concert had better have a good turnout…

Kicking the snow in slight frustration, Grant tried to not to think about his gradual slide into the desperate situation he was in now. Three years ago to the day, he'd had it all in London, but his affairs had just gone started to go downhill when someone robbed him blind, breaking into his account at the Bank of London and taking _everything_. Grant had tried to get back the stolen money, but apparently he wasn't the only victim and the bank could only deal with ten customers at a time, not a hundred. Grant owed money at the time to someone else, and so he fled the city altogether in order to dodge paying his debts, and came to the United States instead looking for work. His longtime friend, Sean Collins, did not accompany him, and it had been unfair of Grant to expect him to come because Sean _did_ have a wife and two children to worry about, unlike Grant who didn't even have a girlfriend.

Sighing, he reached his semi – darkened street without much problem, noting that the NYU students in the flat below his own had finally quieted down… or they were still gearing up for the night's events, seeing as their main room light was still on and there were more than the expected two silhouettes through the curtains.

He wasn't going to sleep tonight, especially if there were really five students in there this time.

_Damn._

Fumbling with his key, he entered the opulent apartment complex lobby, nodded tiredly to the night guard, and tiredly made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor to his apartment; the elevator wasn't an option anymore since those NYU kids from downstairs had ambushed him with party string that one time… and Grant had unwittingly taken the fall for the damage when the landlord came onto the elevator after the kids had gotten off. As a result, Grant had had to pay for the repair work, still owed two months' rent, and now avoided his landlord at all costs.

Grant _hated_ those kids.

After shouldering his apartment door open, he set the violin case down by the door and pulled his jacket off, throwing it to the side. Immediately regretting it, since the apartment was unusually cold, he reached over and pulled his jacket back on and shut the apartment door before going back to the couch, his prized box clutched tightly to his side as though to hide it from prying eyes.

_Alone at last_.

Making himself comfortable, he set the box carefully down on the coffee table in front of him. Then he leaned down and pulled the other case out from its hiding place underneath the couch. Setting that on the table next to the cardboard box, he reached forward to open it, but something caught his eye.

Frowning, he hesitated, and then leaned over to examine it closer.

It was a small pile of orange seeds, four to be exact. They were sitting on top of a small slip of paper that had two words written in boldface font:

BEHIND YOU

Reflexively, he turned sharply around.

For a moment, all he could see were the empty apartments from across the street; darkened foreboding windows that looked like gaping holes in the older building. The city, Grant knew, had set for the complex to be demolished tomorrow morning at six am sharp. Nonetheless, the complex looked otherwise abandoned, the snow falling steadily all around it.

But he couldn't see what was so special about it.

Then he realized that the living room windows had been left wide open, snow drifting in and the curtains fluttering in the wind.

Frowning, he stood up to go close them. Walking around the couch, he reached out to the twin large windows to close them, trying to remember when he'd opened them in the first place.

He never saw it coming.

All he felt was sharp pain in the left side of his chest, where his heart was, and then his world collapsed into permanent darkness around him.

* * *

**A/N: Welcome to _Switched Around!_ I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) Elementary and all related media belong to CBS.**

**To clear up any confusion: for any readers of the _Stranger_ storyline, this story is not connected to that. **

**Disclaimer: I'm saying this now, but I have not yet seen episodes 6 and 7 of _Elementary_ due to a severe lack of time (school), but I do plan to take advantage of the upcoming short break to catch up on that.**


	2. Virus

**II**

**Virus**

* * *

"Watson!"

Joan Watson came to an abrupt stop at the sound of her name, coincidentally timed so that she heard it between songs on her iPod. She'd gone out for her morning jog as usual despite the slush, but had taken a different route than usual. Up until that point, her phone hadn't gone off or she'd otherwise hadn't received a sign that her charge, Sherlock Holmes, had gotten up to some mischief that he couldn't handle (Exhibit A being the fiasco with the little boys next door trying to prank the consulting detective). But she'd taken the '_no news is good news'_ to heart, especially since Sherlock did have an unsolved, _open_ case to work on at the moment.

Leaning against the fence for support, she pulled the earbuds out while glancing behind her to look for the source of the noise. She frowned when she saw and recognized the approaching police cruiser as one belonging to NYPD Detective Marcus Bell. As the cruiser pulled up to the curb, she leaned down in order to look into the open passenger window. "Is there a problem, or did Sherlock do something?" she asked with a sinking feeling in her gut. Maybe no news was _bad_ news…

"No, I was actually going to ask you if you knew where he was, he's not responding to any of Captain Gregson's texts or calls," Bell explained. He looked comfortable in the cruiser despite the freezing temperatures outside.

Joan tried to ignore the cold that was slowly creeping into her own bones. "All right, I'll head back to the apartment, see what he's up to now," she said, reflexively checking her phone to see if she had gotten a text after all and had just missed it.

"Hop in, I can drive you over," Bell offered, leaning over and opening the cruiser passenger door.

"Thanks."

Joan got in, pulling off her hat and coat after she closed the cruiser door. She closed her eyes long enough to enjoy the comforting blast of heat from the heaters in front of her. After a few moments of silence, during which Bell easily navigated back to the apartment she shared with Sherlock, she finally said, "I'm pretty sure that Sherlock hasn't left the apartment, I haven't heard otherwise yet. Last I knew, he was still working on the Ian Carlson case from last week," she said, glancing over at Bell.

"Yeah, how far along is he on that one?" Bell asked, looking back at her for a second before returning his attention to the road.

Joan hesitated; she wasn't quite sure how to explain the answer to that one to a police officer. "Sherlock… he managed to remotely access a federal database all the way in London, he still won't tell me exactly how he did it. He tried to look up to see what the government had to say about Carlson, see if he'd been threatened before," she finally admitted.

Bell grimaced as he pulled up to the curb in front of the familiar apartment. "How did that one go over?" he asked.

"Not well. Computer got badly infecting after he received a polite email from the British government warning him off from trying again," Joan said as she got out of the car. "Knowing him though, I think he'll try again regardless of the results from the first time, especially now that he knows the government is apparently trying to hide something from him."

"Wait, he _hacked_ into sensitive records with a slap to the wrist? If I'd done that, I would have lost my job and been arrested for life," Bell said, looking faintly impressed and annoyed all at the same time. "How did he get away with it like that?" he asked as Joan unlocked the front door.

"Well, I'd started to lecture him about it until he said he 'knew people; and that was the only reason he got off so easily," Joan explained as she led Bell into the eerily silent apartment and up the stairs to their apartment. Frowning and suddenly fearing the worst, she opened the door and said, "Sherlock?"

"Busy arguing with someone across the Atlantic. It's actually quite harder than it sounds," came the calm reply from the living room.

Joan immediately went into the living room, which looked as though a tornado had ripped through in the thirty minutes she was out. Books, photocopies of records, and a large amount of photographs were scattered all over every available walking surface. Joan could even see a few pens lying haphazardly around as well, some in plain sight, some deceptively hidden. "Is this argument so engaging that you had to abandon this mess?" she finally asked, gingerly stepping around the edge, knowing that while she couldn't see it, there was apparently always a rhyme and reason to a mess that Sherlock created.

"Or better yet, ignore all the calls and texts from Gregson?" Bell asked, carefully mirroring Joan's footsteps.

"Yes, it was, because once you have Mycroft Holmes's attention, it is always imperative that you make the most of it because there is no telling if you'll ever get it back. Besides, it's for the Carlson case," Sherlock replied without looking up from the computer screen.

"Who is Mycroft Holmes?" Joan asked, frowning as she tried to recall Sherlock's father's name.

"An older cousin of mine that if we are all lucky, we will never see him here," Sherlock replied. "Our fathers are brothers, Mycroft had a younger brother close to my age while I have an older brother a few years younger than him. Unfortunately due to the nature of Mycroft's work, it is surprisingly difficult to get and maintain his attention for very long."

"And this relates to the Ian Carlson case how?" Bell asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If _anyone _ever had any kind of helpful record on Ian Carlson, it would be Mycroft. Unfortunately, he's locked everything down, meaning I can't get into the databases. Of course, this tells me that he's hiding something, but when I asked earlier, all he said was that Ian Carlson was an interior designer before he left London, which by the way is a blatant _lie_."

"Okay, now I'm lost," Bell said.

"What makes you say it was a lie?" Joan asked, leaning against the wall.

Sherlock grinned, looking up at the two of them. "Do you remember what his flat looked like?"

"A complete mess?" Bell said, glancing down at the mess strewn about the living room floor.

Joan definitely remembered the apartment, because she'd been looking anywhere but at the corpse. "Bare walls, basic furniture, and a few photographs of friends and family. Very little decoration," she said.

"Good, good… now, Carlson was a violin teacher at a private Catholic high school, he had enough funds to decorate the place. Since he was a recovering addict, he sure didn't spend that money on drugs. He had more than enough to spend it on décor for his flat," Sherlock said, leaning back in the armchair.

"So his apartment didn't reflect his job as an interior designer. So what?" Bell said, placing his hands on his hips.

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. "He had the money to live comfortably," he said. "Yet he did not. I accessed his financial records before Mycroft kicked me out. Carlson still had debts to pay off when he left London, but he paid those in good time. Then he's doing fine again before suddenly, he had no money again."

"All right, can you establish a timeline then?" Bell asked wearily.

"Two years ago, Carlson comes to the United States from London. Last year, he finishes paying off his debts. Six months ago, he moves across town. Five months ago, he finally has the courage to kick his drug habit. _Two_ months ago, he starts transferring funds, about twenty – five percent of each paycheck, to an anonymous bank account in England. One week ago to the day, Carlson is murdered," Sherlock said, straightening now. He tilted his head and asked, "Any questions?

"Yeah, how did you get that all from his apartment _walls_?" Bell demanded.

"You can tell he's recently moved into the apartment, it was sparsely decorated. Decorating is usually a lengthy process, but he was interrupted. Why? Lack of money. It couldn't have been lack of time, his planner tells us that he had plenty of free time. So then where did the money go? He'd quit with the drugs, as evidenced by the scars on his arms. The financial records told me everything else I needed to know. The bank account to which he was transferring the funds was under a blocked name. I was trying to find the account holder's name when Mycroft interrupted, and now I need to get my computer fixed," Sherlock replied.

"Wait, were you on my computer just now?" Joan suddenly asked, looking down at the laptop in question, which was now set aside.

"I created a guest account for myself so that you can change your master password, and I can still use it without invading your privacy," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

"That's not going to help us if you do something to earn more computer viruses," Joan warned him. "Then you'll be paying to fix mine too."

"That shouldn't be a problem, I'm done bothering Mycroft. For now, I believe this is the part where I get to say, 'I told you so'?" he said, looking up at Bell, who scowled.

"Yeah, same M.O. as Carlson. Gunman even went the extra mile to open the apartment front windows, at least with Carlson, the window was left open since he was practically home, so we're stuck with no sense of angle the gunman was situated at," Bell said.

"That and he wanted to make less of a messy kill, hold back as much evidence as possible just to torment you," Sherlock said grimly, standing up. "He's trying to be clever, and I'll give him credit for effort, but it won't be enough in the end." Tilting his head at Bell, he added almost as an afterthought, "Bell, why don't you go ahead and Watson and I will meet you at the scene, seeing that it is December and neither Watson or I are properly dressed."

"Right. Here's the address," Bell replied, pulling out his notepad and scribbling something down before he ripped the note page off and handed it to Joan. "Try not to take too long."

"Give us thirty minutes at most, and try to preserve the scene as best you can," Sherlock replied. "What is the name of the victim?"

"Grant Miller. Landlord found him this morning because other residents were complaining about a draft down the hall," Bell said. "But –"

"All right then. I'll be there to take a look in a little while. See you there," Sherlock said pointedly before turning and walking into the kitchen.

Bell blinked, but shrugged. "All right then." He glanced at Joan and said, "I'll see you in a few minutes as well, I guess. Ms. Watson."

"Detective."

Joan watched Bell leave the apartment before going into the kitchen where she found Sherlock rooting around in the fridge. Leaning against the doorframe, she asked, "Busy morning then?"

"I told you, once I had Mycroft's attention, I had to keep it if I wanted him to help me," Sherlock said. "One slip and I'd have lost it for the next twenty or so years. Then again, it was a wasted effort this time since he decided to be a git and be extremely unhelpful. So as you can see, ignoring Gregson's calls and texts were important, and he'll understand once I explain that it was for the case," Sherlock added before diving back into the refrigerator.

"Are you on good terms with Mycroft?" Joan asked curiously.

"Hard to tell, since we rarely ever talked when we were younger. He's about ten years older than me," Sherlock replied. "Always was too busy climbing up the social ladder to pay much attention to the rest of us while we were growing up."

"Sounds a bit lonely to me," Joan remarked, reflecting on her own childhood. She'd been an only child, but her three cousins at least been close to her in age with the biggest age difference being five years. "So you never saw him?"

"Not really, but my older brother Sherrinford, is five years younger than Mycroft, so he was always around. I rarely saw Mycroft when I was growing up, but then again, his younger brother rarely did either. So it's not much of a trade – off, but I took what I could get."

Joan nodded, and then, as a though occurred to her, she carefully asked, "Do any of them know about the addiction?"

Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "If they did, they didn't say anything. One of my cousins, the one who was close to my age, fell off the proverbial wagon long before I ever did, and his immediate family kept it under wraps. I of course found out, but did not do anything either, not that there was anything I _could_ do about it in the first place. That being said, Mycroft is probably the only one who knew, as well as my father, but there's nothing he can do."

"But –" Joan began, but Sherlock gently cut her off.

"Trust me when I say that it is an excellent thing indeed if you never meet Mycroft Holmes," he said quietly. "The longer he stays out of our lives, the better off we'll be."

Joan stared at him. "You just contacted Mycroft and _now_ you tell me that we need to stay away from him?" she asked incredulously.

"I said that it was best that he didn't interfere with our lives, I didn't say that he wouldn't be useful. You don't even want to know what his younger brother's police records would have looked like if Mycroft hadn't wiped away half of them," Sherlock said, smirking as he breezed past Joan and headed back into the living room, stepping along an invisible harmless route through the minefield.

"But isn't that _illegal_?" Joan asked, turning around to face him.

Sherlock had a broad grin on his face when he sat back down. " 'Illegal' is just a minor technical term when one is the British government," he said, grinning.

"You mean, 'part of the British government', right?" Joan asked.

"Oh, no, I meant what I said. I'll bet you _anything_ that he'll be willing to help me out later in this case, especially since Carlson's killer decided to strike again. Which, by the way, I suspected he would," Sherlock said, reaching for Joan's laptop again.

"Wait, you _knew_ the gunman was going to strike again? Did you say something to Gregson about it?" Joan asked.

"I didn't know, I _suspected_, but yes, I did tell Gregson and Bell both. Hence the 'I told you so' from earlier," Sherlock explained patiently. He paused as though thinking, and then he said, "You mentioned earlier that you remembered what Carlson's flat looked like. Do you remember what the furniture was, specifically the room the body was in?"

Joan shook her head; she'd been focusing on not looking at the bloody cadaver lying on ground and on top of the coffee table. Carlson had been sitting down on his couch when he was killed, his back to the window. "I was a little distracted at the time," she admitted.

"It's all right, I'll just tell you. On the coffee table, near the top of his head, were five orange seeds arranged in a pentagon. They were on top of a note that said 'TURN AROUND'. If you were sitting in Carlson's place, and turned around, you'd be facing the open window. Now that there's a second scene with a similar situation, I'll bet you ten dollars that there's four seeds at this scene on top of yet another note," Sherlock said, opening the laptop lid again.

"But why seeds?"

"A warning to both the victim and the police, I promise I'll explain later. Now, I have one more email to write to Mycroft while you shower and change, and then we'll go to the address that Bell provided," Sherlock said as he began typing again.

Joan nodded while still mulling over a few more questions she had in mind, but she chose to keep quiet for now. "Don't you dare let that computer get a virus," she said over her shoulder before leaving the room to take her shower and change into warmer clothing. The heat in the apartment was the only thing keeping her comfortable right now, and that was undoubtedly going to change once they left.

"No promises!" she heard Sherlock call after her.

She was surprised to find herself smiling softly.

Of course he'd say that.

* * *

**A/N: Investigation next week! ;)**

**I also apologize if I got Joan's family incorrect, I don't know if they said anything about in the show yet, I'm still woefully behind in episodes :(**

**I'm glad everyone is enjoying it, thank you so much for the reviews/faves/alerts.**


	3. Stakes

**III**

**Stakes**

* * *

"Victim's name is Grant Arthur Miller, thirty – nine years old, moved here from London roughly three years ago," NYPD Captain Tobias Gregson said as Sherlock and Joan arrived to the threshold of the cramped apartment. Joan could see that the news of a possible serial killer had taken its toll on Gregson already; he looked worn out and wasn't fighting with Sherlock as much as he usually did, apparent since he didn't question Sherlock's lack of response to the texts and calls. Gesturing to the wide – open windows, Gregson said, "Landlord came up to figure out why there was a draft, and found Miller covered in at least an inch of snow."

"He's been here for a day at least, if not two," Sherlock said, already kneeling at the corpse's side. "Shot to the heart this time, I see."

"He's a lucky bastard, that's for sure. Didn't bleed to death like Carlson did," Gregson remarked darkly as he stepped aside to let Joan through.

Swallowing down the slight nausea, she took a few steadying breaths before looking down the body.

Miller's body hadn't had a good chance to start decomposing; the snowfall had covered the body and created something of a protective layer of thin ice around it. If it hadn't been for the small red stain on the front of his shirt and the look of complete bewilderment on his face, she could have easily assumed that Miller was only sleeping.

The rest of the apartment looked bare and lonely. Peeling wallpaper curled away from where the walls met, and all of the furniture seemed crammed into one room. Joan could see a small kitchen in the next room over and what looked like a bedroom just beyond that. She assumed that the bathroom was attached in there somewhere. There were no photographs, no mail, nothing to ever indicate that there was ever a person living there in the first place. Outside the still open window, she saw the empty apartment complex that looked gray and lifeless in the surrounding snow. One of the windows was opened, and she guessed that the serial killer had made the kill from there. Al

Sherlock meanwhile had made a beeline for the table, where there were two boxes sitting on top. Ignoring those, he knelt down in front of a small object on the table, studying the items. Then he stood up and said, "These orange seeds, they're still in the original place, right?"

"Yes, we didn't touch or move anything. I sent three officers across the street a little while ago to scour the building for the gunman's hiding spot, see if we can look at this from his angle for once," Gregson said, stepping back to allow Sherlock to return to the body in order to examine it. Handing Sherlock a pair of blue plastic gloves, Gregson added, "Forensics said that these two boxes are his drugs and supplies, he was an addict as well."

"With no signs of quitting. He was about to get his next hit last night, but the gunman killed him first," Sherlock said, pulling Miller's sleeve up to examine the small scars that lined the man's forearm. "He was coming back from either a performance or a rehearsal, was stressed out and needed the dose that night," he said, pushing the sleeve back. Before Gregson could ask for an explanation, he said, "The case is still by the door, it's underneath the jacket."

"Bell, start asking around for orchestra groups that are missing a violinist, or better yet, ask if they employ Grant Arthur Miller, and let me know what you come up with," Gregson said, and Bell nodded, leaving the apartment. Gregson glanced at the few forensics specialists working nearby before asking in a low voice, "Think it's a drug deal gone bad?"

"No. Even though Miller and Carlson shared the same dealer, as evidenced by the manufacturing mark on the box there, they were both good about paying their debts," Sherlock said, standing up again and pulling the blue plastic gloves off. "There's something missing, it matches Carlson's killer's M.O., but something feels off."

"In what way?" Joan asked, stepping back to give Sherlock space.

"The two men are similar in every way in that _except _they did not know each other," Sherlock said, picking up what looked like a worn address book. Flipping through the book, he said, "Usually, serial killers target people who, nine times out of ten, know each other. If not that, then there should be at least _one_ connection between victims. Serial killers _want_ to be noticed, that's why they usually go through the trouble of setting this all up. They want their future victims to read about this in the papers and realize, _I'm going to be next!'_ He wants us to know that he has four more victims in mind before he's done."

"Four? Where the hell did you get that?" Gregson asked, looking confused.

"The orange seeds. Historically, secret societies use them as warnings to the intended receiver. Carlson had five, Miller had four, someone is going to get three, the next victim is going to get two, and the one after him is going to get one. But…" Sherlock raised a finger before he said, "But there is going to be a grand finale. If the killer was going to stop at five, then why do the countdown in the first place? Why not leave five seeds at each victim's house? No, the killer has only one real victim in mind, but he's saving the best for last." Sherlock paused, and scanned Miller's prone form. "In fact, I wonder if it's someone he knows is on the case, that he's trying to warn one of us."

"Who?" Joan asked, glancing at him.

He hesitated for a second, and then said, "I don't quite know yet, I'll need to examine the connections between the two crime scenes, and not just the evidence." He turned to Joan and said, "Would you mind going to Bell downstairs and asking him if he could list off everyone who was at Carlson's crime scene as well as this one? Please make sure he knows that he needs to keep an eye out for any names that appear twice."

"Are there any hints that the killer himself left behind, some that could lead to his identity?" Joan asked, crossing her arms so Sherlock knew he wasn't getting rid of her that easily.

"Unfortunately, no. Nothing new since the last crime scene, he's being extremely careful," Sherlock said, surveying the scene before turning back to look at her. "Doesn't want to tip the victim off too early."

"And Ms. Watson, when you go downstairs to talk to Bell, ask him to list the most likely people who will be assisting on the next case next week," Gregson said. Joan wondered how odd it was for him to predict the next crime scene just like that.

"We'll have to also pull up a profile of both men, list the similarities, and then cast a figurative net over New York and find who else easily fits into the target profile. Maybe even offer some sort of official protection?" Sherlock said to Gregson, who shrugged.

"It depends on how many people fit that profile. My superiors won't like me just tossing random sixteen names down on the list for protection; we can't stretch our resources that much. The people in question will also have to want to go into protection, I can't force them if they don't want to," Gregson said. "We'll spell out everything for them as well."

Joan asked, "How will you be sure that you have everyone?"

"We won't. We'll just do our best just like we've always done," Gregson replied, turning to face her. Glancing back at Sherlock, he said, "Have you gotten everything you need from the scene?"

"Almost. Someone should analyze the drugs just in case we have to find the dealer again, and I'll need to stop at the Sidewalk Diner on my way back," Sherlock said, gesturing to a few grease stains on the package that looked suspiciously like fingerprints. "The only café within walking distance of this apartment is the Sidewalk Diner, and I'll bet you that the concert hall that Miller plays at is within walking distance of the diner as well."

"He could have just called a cab," Bell pointed out, walking back into the apartment. To Gregson, he said, "I just talked to the landlord and one of Miller's downstairs neighbors. Landlord had no idea that a stranger got on and off the premises without him noticing, but the neighbor was smoking out back when he saw an unfamiliar man enter the complex through the fire escape. Hadn't thought much of it at the time, since apparently people are sneaking in all the time to avoid the landlord. Said he was outside for thirty minutes when he heard a gunshot and that was what scared him into going back inside."

"Did the intruder ever come back out?" Sherlock asked, looking interested.

"He doesn't know. He went out around eleven thirty, went back in just after midnight. Saw the man climbing in at eleven fifty," Bell said, surrendering his notepad for Sherlock's perusal.

"Where is this man now?" Joan asked, glancing at Bell.

"Downstairs. I asked him not to move because we had further questions for him," Bell replied.

"Watson, go with Bell and keep talking to the neighbor, get him to loosen up. Gregson and I will join you both in a few minutes," Sherlock said. "I want to go through the rest of the rooms in this flat, make sure that I haven't missed anything."

"All right, anything in particular I should ask him?" Joan asked patiently.

"Establish a timeline," Gregson said before turning back to Sherlock.

"Right."

Joan waited until they were both walking down the stairs when she said, "Do you remember everyone who attended the Carlson case?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Sherlock thinks that the orange seeds the killer keeps leaving behind is a warning to someone on the police team that comes in to clean up and continue the investigation," Joan said. "They're also guessing that there's going to be three or four more until the killer's done, the last being the real victim. Do you think you'll be able to guess everyone who will be at the scene of the killer's next victim?" she asked as they reached the lobby floor.

Bell frowned thoughtfully. "Yes and no… I don't quite remember who was at the last scene. While I may not be able to name everyone off the top of my head, we do have a person who keeps record of such things; this is his second case though. We'll have to talk to him after at the police station. Name's Martin Goldburg, bright young man, a little clumsy though."

"Is he here?" Joan asked.

"No. He's still keeping record, but he's got other paperwork to file and pull up since another one is dead," Bell said as he guided her toward an older man who had a guilty – looking teen next to him, the latter of whom was wearing a NYU hoodie sweatshirt. "Mr. Robinson, this is Ms. Watson, she and her partner work with us on particularly difficult cases," he said. "Ms. Watson, this is Mr. Gordon Robinson, the landlord, and this is Seth Calloway, the neighbor who saw the man sneaking in last night."

Sean gave her a small little smile but Robinson huffed in irritation.

"Is she a professional?" Robinson demanded.

"Yes," Bell replied patiently as though he was too used to Robinson's irritable nature already. "We just had a few more questions to ask Seth about the man who snuck into the apartment last night."

"I told you all I know! Some guy snuck into the apartment last night, I remember being surprised that it took him not very long since he was hunchbacked, but I never saw him come out!" Seth snapped.

"You didn't mention the thing about his back," Bell countered.

Seth threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "Well, I didn't think it was important because I wasn't very sure! It was dark out, and I just barely saw him in the light as it was!" he said, clearly impatient to get moving.

"Son, every detail is important, but thank you for tell us that," Bell said.

"And you didn't see anyone later in the night or this morning whom you knew didn't belong here?" Joan asked.

Seth shrugged. "I don't know all my neighbors, just my roommates."

"I most certainly didn't see anyone," Robinson said imperiously.

"Yes, you made that quite clear this morning when you screamed at the rest of us earlier," Bell said under his breath as he continued to write a few more notes down.

"Did the night guard see anything?" Joan asked. Frowning she asked, "You do have a night guard, right?"

"Yes. Marley Chapman. He's been working here for the last thirty years and nothing has _ever_ happened under his watch until last night, so don't you dare accuse him of this," Robinson snapped.

"Calloway, why didn't you report the gunshot when you heard it?" Bell suddenly asked, looking up and frowning at the younger man, who shrugged.

"My buddy had his girlfriend over and she had one of her friends. I kinda didn't want to bother with all of this, and to be honest, I kinda forgot about it until this morning," Seth said, looking embarrassed now.

Bell sighed. "All right, I would like it if you came to the station to give a statement, we're going to need it for the investigation," Bell said, lowering his notepad to look at Seth.

"Can I drive myself down?" Seth asked hopefully.

"Yes. Drive down there in the next thirty minutes and ask for Martin Goldburg, he'll ask questions and take down your statement," Bell said. He glanced at Robinson and said, "We'd appreciate it sir, if you came down as well."

"I refuse to go with him. And with you for that matter," Robinson said immediately.

"Then please come down in the next thirty minutes, and ask for Martin Goldburg as well," Bell said. Closing his notepad, he said, "Thank you, gentlemen, for your cooperation."

"My mom isn't going to know about this, is she?" Seth blurted out, looking panicked. "Or worse, this isn't going to end up on my personal record, is it?"

"So long as you are not a suspect or victim in this case, no,your mother won't find out about it. But we do have to mark down that you were a witness in this case, just in case you become a potential target," Bell said, and Seth paled. "But personally, I wouldn't worry too much since you do not fit the killer's target profile," Bell added as though in an afterthought.

Seth still looked pretty ill as another officer arrived to escort him and a sputtering Robinson out.

"Do you think the man climbing into the window was the gunman?" Joan asked Bell, who shook his head.

"Even without Sherlock to tell us, all evidence points to the gunman being in the complex across the street," Bell said, pocketing the pencil and notepad. "The man may actually be a random person trying to dodge the landlord, but I don't think he was hunchbacked, just had a backpack or something equally as bulky on his back." He gestured to Seth's retreating back and said, "You saw Calloway. He's just one of many students around here."

"Good point," Joan agreed as Sherlock and Gregson came into the hall. "Wait, what's going on?" Joan asked once Sherlock started to make for the front door.

"Checked Miller's email. There was a message about the complex across the street being schedule for demolition today at six in the morning. Yet here it still is," Sherlock said, turning on his heel to head back out the door.

Joan quickly followed him, and Bell followed.

"You think the sniper left something there?" she asked, running slightly just to catch up, still mindful of the slush on the sidewalk and the street.

Sherlock stopped so fast she almost ran into him. "What did you just call him?" he asked, turning to face her.

"A sniper. Serial killer. Sorry, didn't realize there was a distinction," she said, throwing her hands up slightly in exasperation.

Sherlock was still staring at her. "Brilliant," he suddenly said. Turning back to Gregson, he shouted "Captain!"

"What?" Gregson asked, pausing in his tracks.

"Serial killer is most likely a sniper, like Watson suggested. "Probably ex – military, sniper training is extensive and requires a lot of discipline and time. But if you look at the distance," Sherlock said, pointing at first Miller's apartment, the window still open, "between the two…"

Joan frowned when Sherlock's voice trailed off. "What is it?" she asked, but stopped as soon as she saw what distracted Sherlock.

The window on the empty complex where the gunman had used was still hanging wide open, but the next five windows to the right were damaged as well. Some had jagged pieces missing, others were mostly intact, but each one had at least one bullet hole visible. Whatever the case may be, the damage was still too small to see from Miller's apartment window. "Another shooter?" she guessed.

"More importantly, who was shooting at who, and why weren't they getting along?" Sherlock mused aloud. Glancing at Gregson, he asked, "Is the door unlocked?"

"Already have men inside. Let's go," Gregson replied before turning on his heel and running toward the complex.

After climbing two flights of narrow metal stairs, the small group arrived to an expansive room, and it was immediately obvious where the fight had gone wrong; broken glass littered the floor, and there were already wet patches where the snow had blown in and melted. Joan felt her stomach roll slightly when she saw that there were streaks of dried blood across the floor, a few splatters, and then a stripe on the wall where an injured man had leaned against it for support. Sherlock paused and kneeled to examine something on the ground.

"Score marks, at least seven. All of the bullets have been removed from the floor; someone doesn't want us tracking him. There was a second man here; he smeared his footprints as he removed the bullets," Sherlock said, standing up. "All of the blood belongs to the same person, it was drying when the second one arrived." Scanning the ground he said, "We're looking at two professional killers who are not getting along right now, one is using a silencer and tried to shoot the first. In fact, I'm willing to bet that the man Seth Calloway saw last night was the second shooter."

"So we're looking at two pissed snipers and three to four men who are going to die. Fantastic," Gregson muttered sarcastically underneath his breath. "Are you absolutely sure about the seeds being a countdown?"

"Honestly, it's still a theory at this point, I'll need to see another scene of this gunman's creation in order to be absolutely sure," Sherlock said, turning around to face Gregson.

"If we're lucky and we all do our jobs right, we won't have to see another scene of this gunman's creation," Gregson shot back.

"Any hint as to what might have caused the disagreement?" Joan asked. "If we could figure it out, maybe we can use that to our advantage."

Sherlock nodded toward one side of the room. "Maybe there's a clue right there," he said grimly.

Joan turned, and immediately swallowed.

Five words had been scrawled in a shaky hand on the wall in blood, all dried now. Joan couldn't tell if the writer had used his dominant hand and was just suffering too much from blood loss, or one of the gunman had gotten lucky and hit the writer in the dominant hand, leaving him to write in the other.

"What do you think it means?" she said finally.

Sherlock said nothing for a few minutes as he studied the words. "Clearly, someone has cheated, and someone else is very upset about that, and has vengeance in mind," he said as he slowly took in the minute details of the five words.

_An eye for an eye_

* * *

**A/N: Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist.**


	4. Records

**IV**

**Records**

* * *

_An eye for an eye._

For a moment, no one said anything.

Sherlock broke the silence first. "Is there a way you can analyze the handwriting?" he asked, glancing over at Gregson.

"Might be tricky since it's not his or her usual writing, if what you say about the writer's condition is true," Gregson said finally. "Blood analysis on the other hand, we can do." He turned to Bell and asked, "Where is the forensics team?"

"Still across the street, going through Miller's apartment. I'll radio this in and they can take a look," Bell said, glancing down and edging away from one of the smudged footprints. "Think it's a drug deal gone south?"

"No. It doesn't explain why there's a dead man and two shooters attacking each other. I don't think the second one was trying to keep Miller alive," Sherlock said, walking over to one of the windows that had a single bullet hole in the glass. Bending down, he peered through to the other building. "Second shooter was most likely the same man that Mr. Calloway saw last night, you can see the fire escape from here. The angle of the score marks suggest that the second sniper was sitting on top of the roof, but you can check me on that one," he said, straightening up.

"We're not dealing with a second serial killer or a copycat, are we?" Gregson asked.

"No copycats just yet. Second sniper might do something drastic to provoke Miller's killer though," Sherlock said grimly. "This is a war, Captain. They're not going to stop just because you want them to. They'll only stop when either one of them is dead or the mission objective has been achieved." Sherlock fell quiet, an unfamiliar emotion flickering across his face. "The last time I saw this game happening was in a slightly different battlefield, a week or so before I left London three years ago. Both participants ended up dead. Now, I still don't know whom the first sniper is toying with, but it may answer as to why there is a second." Turning to Gregson, he said, "You said there was a man keeping track of the cases. Who is he again?"

"Martin Goldburg," Joan answered. At Sherlock's puzzled expression, she said, "The man you're looking for is Martin Goldburg. Detective Bell mentioned it earlier."

"Right. Is there a way we can talk to Mr. Goldburg?" Sherlock asked, turning around to face Gregson.

Gregson shrugged. "He's down at the station if you want to talk. Just don't bother him if he's working, I don't want him to make a mistake just because you distracted him. The paperwork involved with rectifying a mistake could take so long that our killer would be finishing up his fourth victim by the time we finished," he said, glancing back at the handwriting.

"Right. There's one more thing I want to look at before we head down to the station," Sherlock said. Glancing at Joan, he said, "Let's go."

"Oh, and Holmes? One more thing before you go," Gregson said, turning to watch the two of them leave.

Both Joan and Sherlock stopped at the stairwell. "Yes?" Sherlock asked.

"About what we discussed earlier. What do I tell the press?" Gregson asked.

"Keep it vague, and only mention five people of your choosing that are working on the case. If the killer strikes again before next Saturday, then he's only doing it for the publicity. If not, then he's definitely focused on the target we discussed earlier," Sherlock replied before ushering Joan out and down the stairs.

"What was that all about?" Joan asked as they walked down the stairs. "And who do you think is the target you discussed earlier with Gregson?"

"Someone that makes me hope that I am desperately wrong. Captain Gregson and I discussed potential targets for both the countdown and the finale, and we have a small list of possible victims that you and I are going to reach out to throughout this week. I want to figure out who fits the profile the best before bringing the person in for protection," Sherlock explained. "Anyway, I'm hoping that the second sniper might have been careless enough to leave something behind since it was cold and dark last night. At this moment, we have about four leads to work from, only one of which I am absolutely certain he will tell us everything we want to know," Sherlock added as the two of them left the empty complex and walked back across the street again.

"Which lead is that?" Joan asked.

"Chaz, the drug dealer that sold to both Miller and Carlson. He definitely didn't commit the murders, but he definitely assisted. Whether that assistance was intentional or not remains yet to be seen," Sherlock replied as he guided the two of them toward the dismal backyard of the building.

Joan remembered Chaz all right. He'd fluttered anxiously about the apartment as the police combed through it for the drugs that Sherlock was convinced he was selling. Sherlock soon figured out though that Chaz didn't keep his goods in the same place where he lived in the off chance the police obtained a search warrant. Sherlock had left a few minutes later, Joan right behind him.

"Do you think you'll be able to find him? You said he'd leave his apartment if he suspected he was involved again," Joan said as Sherlock examined the metal steps on the rickety fire escape.

"And I suspect he did, or at least he will when he sees that Miller is dead," Sherlock said, gesturing for her to wait. "I'm going to go up, use the snow to see where the second sniper stepped. Wait here."

"Go on, I wasn't planning on going anywhere anyway," Joan said, stepping back to reassure Sherlock.

He just nodded before climbing up the fire escape. She watched until he disappeared from sight before deciding to look around the snow-covered yard for any more hints of an intruder.

While the snowfall the night before may have covered up any tracks, it wasn't enough to completely bury any marks. She noticed depressions in the snow that looked roughly similar to footprints surrounding the steps that Sherlock had just taken, older ones that Sherlock must have avoided when climbing onto the fire escape. Joan then noticed what looked like a faint path leading away from the fire escape to the wire fence that surrounded the property. A large chunk of broken wiring marked the exit. Following the footprints as far as the fence, she noticed that the path went underneath the fence and down the small alley to the main street.

Gritting her teeth, she raised the metal wire and ducked underneath to continue following the footsteps.

Once out on the main street, she noticed that the prints headed straight across the street. She followed them up to the entrance to the second complex, and then noticed a second path leading back across the street. Following that and gently turning to the right, she followed them for another short distance until the prints stopped by a parking meter, and then there was nothing else.

_He got into a car._

This was a good sign. In fact, this development was extremely helpful. The streets, she knew, had cameras for security purposes anyway. So as long as they could get the car description or better yet, the license plate numbers. Then all the police would have to do was track down the car registration, and then the chase for the second sniper would be relatively simple.

She headed back to the small yard, retracing her footsteps. She only stopped outside the front of the building when she noticed Sherlock standing there, bundled up in his winter coat again. "I found something, the second sniper left in a car after he was done working," she said.

Sherlock nodded. "In that case, he just might be a resident of the area. A car late at night is certainly going to raise questions unless of course it's a car that people see regularly around here, so it would make sense if he lived in the area. We could still ask around though, just in case I happen to be wrong," he said, stepping out long enough to flag down a passing taxi. "We should still talk to Chaz though, but I want to talk to Goldburg first."

"Any idea of how to locate him?" she asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Simple. Ask one of the three other leads."

* * *

Martin Goldburg turned out to be younger than Joan initially assumed. He had short blond hair with green eyes and the sort of smile that usually put one at ease almost right away. Joan wouldn't be surprised if he ever conducted interrogations, his very nature seemed easygoing as demonstrated when she and Sherlock walked into the police station, where Goldburg was chatting casually with the receptionist, a stack of files on the counter between them.

"Ah, you must be the great Sherlock Holmes," he said, grinning as he looked up, seeing the two of them approaching him. "And Doctor Watson, I presume?" he said, looking at her while shaking hands with Sherlock.

"Actually, it's just Ms. Watson," she said, accepting the handshake.

Before she could pull her hand away however, Goldburg took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of her hand. "My apologies, ma'am," he said with a faint smile. "I've actually heard quite a bit about the two of you from the others," he said as he released her hand, stepping back to look at the two of them better.

"That's always a good thing to hear," Sherlock said with a smile that matched Goldburg's. "Did you transfer here recently?"

"About a month or so ago," Goldburg replied. "Came from Richmond, Virginia, where I've lived all my life up until now."

"The climate change must have been quite the shock," Sherlock said, leaning back on a foot.

Goldburg nodded. "It sure was. Now, Captain Gregson said you needed help with something related to the Carlson case?" he asked, glancing between the two of them.

"Yes, I do. Do you have any records on Miller's case yet? I need to see them both at the same time," Sherlock said grimly.

"Well, I don't have the full file on Miller yet, the teams have yet to return with the newest data and information," Goldburg said apologetically. "I only have the initial 9-1-1 call and the initial assessment from the forensics teams." He hesitated, and then said, "I _can_ give you what I have of Miller's background and family so far, and Scotland Yard is being unusually stubborn when it comes to responding to my emails."

"Yes, they do that, it's not your fault," Sherlock said, a note of fondness barely audible in his voice. Joan briefly wondered that if given the chance, would Sherlock permanently return to London? Sherlock of course, unaware of her musings, plowed on ahead with the conversation. "Can you take us to the records now?"

"Yes, of course. This way, please."

Joan noticed the slight tightening around Sherlock's mouth when Goldburg turned and began to lead the two of them down the hall. "What is it?" she whispered as they walked.

"Nothing… it's just in that moment, Goldburg reminded me of someone I met once back in London," Sherlock muttered back.

"Good someone or bad someone?"

"Bit of both. It was at a family function, which means that he wasn't out to kill any of us, but at the same time, that was his job. He'd put quite a few of us on edge for the entire event… I just can't remember his blasted name," Sherlock quietly replied. "Mum especially didn't like him, she had some creative names for him in French." He glanced down at Joan's puzzled expression, and said, "Remind me to tell you later."

"Sorry about the walk," Goldburg said, startling Joan as he paused to unlock an office door that had his nameplate on the front. "But I keep all the case files in my office for security purposes," he explained, stepping back to invite them in.

"Makes sense," Sherlock said as he and Joan walked inside the office. "The notes you do have? Where are they?"

"Right here," Goldburg replied, reaching up toward a high shelf on the black bookcase that lined one entire wall of the office. "So here's everything I have on the Carlson case. As I've stated before, I don't have much on the Miller case, so you're out of luck there," he said, handing over a few files to Sherlock, who immediately opened them and began reading the papers inside. "There are also copies of the crime scene photographs in there, as well as a log of official correspondence with Scotland Yard. Oh, and the personnel list is there, everyone who was present at Carlson's crime scene."

"Very thorough, that's good. Have you personally seen any parallels between the two victims yet?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"You mean aside from the obvious? Not yet. I'm still waiting for the Yard to respond, but I'll let you know if anything comes up," Goldburg said, leaning against his desk. Glancing at Joan, he said, "If you don't mind me asking, is she your assistant or something?"

"Yes, and an invaluable one at that. And no, you may not ask for her to assist you," Sherlock replied without looking up.

"Actually, I was only going to ask if you two were, you know, _together_?" Goldburg said with a faint smile.

"Wh- no, not like that," Joan said, smiling a little awkwardly. That was the first time someone had jumped to that conclusion.

Goldburg just grinned. "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"

"Aren't you already married? There's a band of lighter skin around your ring finger," Sherlock said, abruptly looking up at the police officer. The other didn't flinch, just shrugged in response.

"Recently divorced. Ex-wife couldn't handle the stress from the danger I was putting myself in," he replied, glancing regretfully at Joan. "We parted on semi-good terms, I moved north when NYPD offered me a position here. She stayed in Richmond."

"You still miss her though," Sherlock said quietly, watching Goldburg carefully.

Goldburg looked away. "Can you blame me? We'd been married for four years up until that point. It's hard to find a woman in a new city that isn't faint at heart. I was just going to ask Ms. Watson if she wanted to go out for drinks, nothing more," he said, glancing back at Sherlock after a couple moments.

"Drinks sound fine, that won't be a problem," Joan said before Sherlock could properly respond. "Friday night?" she suggested.

Goldburg smiled apologetically. "Can't, working then. Does Thursday night work for you? I can come and pick you up," he said, looking slightly hopeful.

"Here." Joan wrote down the address on a scrap of paper and handed it over to Goldburg. "What time were you thinking?"

"Seven. If that's when you usually eat dinner, I wouldn't mind stopping to grab something to eat as well," Goldburg said, winking as he took the slip of paper. Turning to Sherlock, he said, "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

"Alert me immediately once the Yard replies to your inquiries. Even if it's late at night," Sherlock said while shutting the folder again and handing it back over. "Thank you for your work today, and I expect we'll be talking again soon."

"Yes, I suppose we will," Goldburg said, winking at Joan, who grinned. "See you Thursday, Ms. Watson."

"Looking forward to it, bye," she said before turning around and running to catch up with Sherlock, who was already almost down the hall from the office, and then matching his brisk pace. "That seemed to go well," she remarked.

"Well, it wasn't quite as productive as I'd hoped it would be. Looks like we'll have to find Chaz before we progress any farther in this investigation, see what else he's hiding from us other than his products," Sherlock said, zipping up his coat as the two of them walked through the mostly empty lobby; Gregson had yet to return to the station.

"You could have been a little nicer, he didn't do anything to provoke you," Joan said with a note of reproach in her voice.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise. "In my defense, I did have a good reason for the question about his marriage. Remember when I said there was a person that my mother didn't like, the one that Goldburg reminded me of? I remembered that he _was_ married, so it was just a false alarm on my part, I'd thought that Goldburg was that particular minion. No harm done," he replied before stepping out into the snowy streets. "There's something else too, something that I'm not planning to tell Gregson," he added as Joan stepped outside as well.

She nearly stopped in her tracks. "Is it something about the investigation? Why wouldn't you tell him otherwise?" she asked.

"Because I have a good reason to believe that the second sniper may have slipped up," Sherlock said, keeping his voice down as the two walked away from the station. "Remember when I was up on the fire escape looking for more evidence?"

"Yes, did you find anything?" Joan asked, drawing her coat tighter around herself.

Sherlock nodded. Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a black iPhone, fourth generation, she realized. "When I got to the rooftop, there were footprints as well as scuff marks where Sniper B set the tripod for the gun. He had crouched, didn't want to give too many clues that he'd been there. In doing so, he accidentally dislodged his phone from his coat pocket, and never saw it fall out because it was dark and he was intent on figuring out whether his target was dead or not. Then he was in a rush to leave when he saw the message that Sniper A left behind. The phone is locked with a four-digit passcode, but if you give me enough time, I think I can crack into it," Sherlock said, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket, zipping up the pocket as well.

"And we need to keep this from Gregson _because_?" Joan asked wearily.

"Because the last victim, the _real_ target, could catch on, panic, and then expose him or herself. That will only end in death. Serial killer's work is done, he's never caught, and he either moves on with life or finds another profile to target now that his need for revenge has been satisfied. We're trying to cut our losses, remember?"

"Who is the real target?" Joan asked.

"A person working on the case, there just hasn't been enough crime scenes to pick out a person because Gregson does make slight changes to the staff each time a body turns up with the serial killer's MO. I do have my suspicions though. Another thing that I've noticed is that for the countdown victims, neither Carlson nor Miller had anyone close to them; there was no one to check up on them. I'll have to mention that to Gregson next time I see him," Sherlock said, stepping out to flag down another taxi. "In the meantime, we go back to the flat for coffee and a timeline." He frowned thoughtfully, and then said, "Scotland Yard will take forever at this rate, so I may need to call in an old favor or two to get the information faster, and get around Mycroft."

"You'd better not infect my computer," Joan warned.

"No, of course not. Like I said, a few people owe me favors. They'll help," Sherlock said as the taxi pulled up to the curb. "Let's go."

Joan silently thought, '_I hope you're sure about what you're doing here', _before getting into the taxi after him.


	5. Identities

**V**

**Identities**

* * *

"Ah, now _that_ is interesting."

"You finally cracked the passcode?" Joan asked from the kitchen where she was brewing a fresh pot of coffee. She was still tired from the day before, and was looking forward to what she hoped would be a quiet day of Sherlock pouring through case files and her catching up on some reading. "What was it?" she asked after a moment of silence, sticking her head into the living room.

"Honestly? No idea. All I know is that I have nine attempts to left to crack into this phone before it erases itself clean. The interesting thing is that someone keeps sending texts to it, and the phone was configured to hide the texts until it's been unlocked. Which you can't do without the code," Sherlock said from his perch on the armchair. "Either the second sniper has an accomplice trying to get in touch to coordinate, or his wife is trying to call him home for breakfast. Given the fact that this person has been trying to call _and_ text all night long, the sniper is neither at home, at base, or wherever he's supposed to be right now," he added as Joan went back into the kitchen to get the coffee. He frowned at the phone, and then said, "I may have to get a hacker for this."

"Do we even have _time _for that? We have a third target this Saturday, and I thought we had until then to figure out the target's identity," Joan replied as she poured the coffee into two mugs.

"The two snipers are trying to kill each other, with a _possible_ accomplice either holding the leash of one sniper, or is working alongside the sniper. Three people in the worst case scenario, two at best," Sherlock said, accepting one of the mugs as Joan awkwardly handed one to him; she was trying to avoid stepping on his notes. "And no motive except revenge."

"Do we at least know the core issue, or have an idea?" she asked as she went and got the cream and sugar.

Sherlock shook his head. "The victims themselves offer another perspective in the killer's mindset. They are British, they have been here for three years-"

"They play violin and have encountered drugs at some point," Joan said, frowning as she settled down in the other armchair. She froze when a thought occurred to her. "Sherlock, that's describing you to the letter. What if they come after you next?"

"No. Remember, Miller and Carlson were alone, their bodies would never have been found if their respective landlords hadn't gone looking for them," Sherlock pointed out. "You are here, for one, and you would be hunting me down if I disappeared for more than twelve hours, professional purposes aside. And while he doesn't check on me in person, my father does keep in touch with you, and I have a strong feeling that you'd let him know if I disappeared. The point is, yes, I know I fit every criteria of the killer's _except_ the most important one, which is the presence of a witness. That's why I am not a target. He knows I work with the police, and for all intents and purposes, so do you."

Joan was silent as she processed this. "I understand your point," she said finally. "But I don't know how comfortable I feel about this."

"What specifically about it? The level of my involvement in the case? I'm not worried about a relapse if that's what you're worried about… unless of course I offered to pose as bait…"

"_No_." Joan blinked as though surprised at the strength of her refusal, but she continued speaking anyway. "Please don't intentionally put yourself in harm's way, there has to be another way to do this case without drawing the snipers here. Is there a way we can predict the next victim and save him before it comes down to that?"

"Yes, Gregson and I compiled a list last night of potential targets that fit the criteria," Sherlock said, nodding the long roll of taped sheets of paper that was stretched out on the floor. "It's a bit of an impromptu timeline, and has the other defining factor of the targets," he said, nodding to the penciled marks. The timeline, she noticed, had not only the victims, but also the names of potential targets. "But note that both Carlson and Miller visited one person within six months of each other," Sherlock said, nodding to a point on the timeline.

Kneeling down, Joan silently read '_Chaz'_. "Chaz… wasn't he Carlson's drug dealer? You determined that he had no hand in Carlson's death, when we talked to him," she said, straightening up to glance at Sherlock.

"I've been wondering, since I found that, if I've been asking him the wrong questions. At the time, Gregson thought that Carlson's death was an isolated incident despite the seeds at the scene, and he treated it like an isolated case," Sherlock said, folding his hands underneath his chin as he studied the tick marks he'd made earlier. "Based off our discussion with Chaz, I also have the suspicion that he isn't really aware that he's helping the sniper. While a drug dealer would be careful _not_ to have his clients' real names on record, in case he was found out or the list was lost, he would have a list of aliases at worst. If not, the killer could be chatting him up while either buying the product or pretending to shop around. Whatever the case, Chaz could have leaked the names by accident. He would have been careful after the first death so that any future murders could not be linked back to him, but even the overcautious can make mistakes."

"So these three men are possibly next?" Joan asked, nodding to the three names in the upper left hand corner at one end of the extensive timeline.

"Jeffrey Branson, Michael Coulter, and Richard Brook," Sherlock said as he took Joan's laptop and powered it up. "Those are just three of twenty candidates that fulfill the serial killer's criteria. The age criterion alone knocked out a lot of the British residents in New York, and then Gregson filtered through the remaining criteria. Those are my three, Gregson has three, Bell has three, Goldburg has four, he has more time apparently, another officer named Hernandez has four as well, and Jones has the last three. Splitting them up seemed the best way, that way it's harder for the serial killer to figure out who is exposed. Although Chaz, once we talk to him, will probably cut the list down even more."

"Do you recognize any names on this list?" Joan asked, kneeling so that she could study the names better.

"The last one. Last I heard of Mr. Brook, drugs wasn't his forte, so I figured that that is a name Chaz will confirm as false," Sherlock said, peering over the computer to look at the list. "I'd heard of him in passing before I left London. When I remembered him again recently, it was as though he'd completely dropped off the map. I suppose he came to New York for a better audience, he's a children's storyteller," he added.

"Have you ever actually spoken to Brook?" Joan asked skeptically as she sat back on her heels.

"Not face to face, or by any means of communication for that matter. But I have watched his shows, and I can see why the children love him," Sherlock said as he accessed his Netflix account and found one of the shows on Instant Watch. "Here, watch this," he said, turning the computer around after clicking on the first video.

Joan watched as cartoon characters danced across the screen, singing what she guessed to be the opening theme song. A young man appeared not too long after, dancing and laughing with the characters. Guessing that to be Richard Brook, she noted the short dark hair and hazel eyes, but his smile didn't seem to quite reach those eyes. "How long ago was this filmed?" she asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"Well, the upload date was six months ago but it says in the biography page that Brook recorded around fifteen episodes prior to the release dates because he was leaving the show in order to pursue his music career. It doesn't say what kind of music though," Sherlock said, muting the video as he opened a new tab.

"Well, that's what Google and Wikipedia are for. Legal venues compared to hacking into the British files and NYPD records," Joan said, standing up. She started to reach for her previously ignored mug of coffee, but stopped when Sherlock offered the computer. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Look up Brook, and read off the significant dates and events in his life," Sherlock said, getting down onto the ground. "I'll start adding the information as you go along," he added, glancing up at her.

Joan grudgingly sat down in the vacated armchair and pulled up the pages in question as Sherlock scanned his timeline for the appropriate places for his information. Joan located the studio's website, Mountford Agency, and then studied the short biography of Brook. Her frown deepened as she continued reading. "It says here that he left London because someone was dragging his name through mud, and then shortly after he emailed his resignation and disappeared. Apparently his departure was expected, but the exact date had been unknown. His colleague, Joanna Walker, remained behind in order to continue working on the show, she pretended to be the occasional guest host," Joan said, glancing up at Sherlock, who frowned thoughtfully. "Apparently they fell out of touch after he disappeared."

"No doubt he came here to escape all the unwanted attention, and is _probably_ hoping to continue a quieter line of work through his music career," Sherlock said, folding his hands. "I'll have to email Mycroft again about him. Although Mycroft should be treated with extreme caution, he does have his uses."

"Do you ever talk to him without an ulterior motive? I still remember what you said before, about him," Joan began, but Sherlock was already shaking his head.

"Watson, he probably helped my father in selecting you, which means that he knows plenty about you as it is," Sherlock interrupted. "The fact that we've been here this long without his interference means that he's either up to something that doesn't involve us, or he's just rather busy. Don't question the good things." Going back to his timeline, he asked, "What is the last thing it says about Brook before the end of his bio?"

"Nothing. It just ends with his name being ruined and him leaving. The plan to pursue music was something that was well known among the staff, but they never knew where he was planning to go," Joan replied, shutting the computer lid. Sighing, she glanced at the three names and said, "So we talk to Chaz, and then each of those individuals, compare notes, and then try to predict who is next?"

"Yes, that sounds about right. Then, when you go on your date with what's-his-face from the station, you can figure out if Scotland Yard has gotten back to him yet and if they have any other potential connections or leads to either Miller or Carlson," Sherlock replied, standing up and taking the computer from Joan before settling back down on the floor again.

"Oh no, I am _not_ using Goldburg like that. He just wants a little company, not an interrogation," Joan said before she took her empty coffee mug and the sugar container to put it back into the fridge.

"Ten quid say that he'll use the date as a means of extracting information from you about how my end of the investigation is going," Sherlock replied without looking up from the computer.

"Why are you so paranoid about Goldburg? Does his story not add up or something?" Joan asked from the safety of the kitchen, not bothering to hide her growing annoyance at the consulting detective.

"I told you, he reminded me of someone I met a long time ago, but he was married." Setting the computer down onto the floor, Sherlock glanced up at her and said, "Colin Falsworth is, or was, I should say, a lieutenant in the army, serving as a sniper until Mycroft found him and appropriated him as a bodyguard."

"Wait, you said he was a sniper. Could he be the second sniper, the one that could have the accomplice?" Joan asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Sherlock shook his head. "Falsworth is married with twins on the way, he wouldn't leave his wife exposed now. He's safely tied in London for the next two years or so… although; it might be a little helpful to get his perspective on things. After all, as a sniper, he'd know how to hunt and smoke out another sniper," he said thoughtfully before leaning down to scribble some notes down on the timeline. "And, it's going to be tricky, but I think I can call in a favor or two with someone who can crack this phone's passcode and get us the information before the owner tries to remotely delete the information."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Alexander Winfield, he ran afoul of Mycroft about two years after he graduated from university, but walked away because there wasn't enough evidence to convict him of cyber-terrorism. Last I heard, he was working at a shipping firm based in London," Sherlock said, pulling his phone out and sending a text.

"How did you first meet him?" Joan asked.

"My cousin and I were the two who proved his innocence in a major security breach in Mycroft's department of the government," Sherlock said, setting the phone aside. "Winfield had a solid alibi, he was at a party with friends when the security breach occurred and he was nowhere near a computer at the time. Sometimes I've wondered if Winfield actually did do it, but my cousin fought to prove his innocence with the sole intent of proving Mycroft wrong. Whatever the case may be, Winfield said he owed us both one once the case was over. Time to cash in, I believe."

"Will he be able to hack into the phone without accidentally deleting the data?" Joan asked.

"Yes, and it will have to be done remotely. He has aerophobia, all the threats and money in the world couldn't make him voluntarily come to the States," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes slightly.

"And he works for a _shipping_ company?" Joan said, frowning.

"Yes, in the Information and Technology department. Nice, solid eight to five workday behind a safe desk," Sherlock replied. "He'll probably hop networks though to get to the phone, we might have to help him out on this end. But first, if it's nine in the morning here, then it's early afternoon for him, so he might be in the middle of something. And I'll ask him for Falsworth's number, I'd rather not alert Mycroft to the fact that I'm sneaking around him to get to his bodyguard."

"So let me get this straight. You want to talk to Mycroft about Brook, Falsworth about how to hunt a sniper, and Winfield about breaking into a password-protected phone," Joan said.

"Yes. And you will be talking to Goldburg about the updates on the cases," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly.

"_No_, we are not discussing that anymore. I am not using Goldburg like that," Joan said before turning on her heel and leaving the living room. "End of discussion," she said without turning around, and smiled to herself when she heard Sherlock grumble.

"I'll bump the bet to twenty American dollars. He'll be probing you for information about my end, hell, he'll probably do it in a way so that you won't even realize that he's doing it," Sherlock said to her retreating back. "They did that all the time when I was still working with the Yard in London!"

"To you?" Joan asked, turning to face him.

"Oh no, I was among the few doing it to a suspect's friend or family member. That's how I know the ins and outs of quite a few interrogation techniques," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms.

"Fine, well, I'll politely ask that we don't discuss work at the table," Joan countered before turning to head back upstairs to get the computer charger, she'd noticed that the power was running low when she'd been using it. "Who is the first person we're talking to?" she asked, pausing on the stairs.

"Coulter. I have my reservations about Brook, but we should get started anyway. I'm also going to start looking for Chaz, the sooner we find him the better," he said.

"Is Chaz really the only person who could narrow down that list?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. "If you could alert Gregson about Chaz, I would greatly appreciate it," he said before going back to his work.

Joan simply nodded before going back up to her room to get not only the computer charger, but her phone as well.

* * *

**A/N: You guys are awesome for being patient with me.**


	6. Prey

**VI**

**Prey**

* * *

Somehow, at some point overnight, finding Chaz became Sherlock's top priority.

"If we find him, we find the list of his clients. Cross-reference that with our list of potential victims, and we could cut down on time that would otherwise be spent speaking to each individual. Otherwise, what if that one person we can't talk to until next week turns out to be the next victim?" Sherlock asked the moment Joan stumbled into the living room the next morning, still half-asleep. "The problem is that according to the records of his flat complex, Chaz moved out the day before Miller's death, which also happened to be the same day that we spoke to him. Didn't even leave a forwarding address. I wonder from whom he's running."

"Well, you spooked him pretty badly that day we talked to him," Joan said, blinking to clear her eyes.

"But it wasn't only me there, it was the police as well. I don't think he intended for Carlson, or Miller for that matter, to die. He just didn't want to get caught up in the ensuing legal chaos, which could have potentially exposed more of his illegal activities," Sherlock replied, glancing at her for a moment. "Get your coffee and get dressed, we're going for a little trip this morning."

"Where?"

"First to the police station, then to Central Park, and, if we're extremely lucky, Chaz's house by lunchtime. I want to pick up a few things from the station, then, at the park, meet someone who _probably_ knows where Chaz lives now. As a drug dealer, he'd be part of a tight community, and we'd be meeting with a specialist," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the computer screen.

Joan paused in the kitchen threshold. "What kind of specialist?" she asked warily.

"Nothing like what you're thinking, I promise. I have a small group of associates who specialize in the different fields of living and surviving the streets of New York City," Sherlock said. "The one we're going to see is Rikki Sanders, she occasionally keeps an ear out for information regarding the underground dealers. Makes money selling that information to others, but she and I have a special understanding. Although, it's been a while since we've seen each other, hopefully she hasn't deviated from her usual haunts…"

"I see. Does she use drugs herself?" Joan asked.

"No. She knows too much, if she were to get high, she'd risk arrest and then tell the police _everything_. No one wants her in that position, so even if she wanted drugs, she'd never be able to get them," Sherlock replied, shrugging with a shoulder.

Joan frowned. "I thought your father sent you here for rehabilitation."

"He did. It's where I met Rikki, she was blowing the whistle on an underground operation because someone failed to pay her what was owed. After I left, she helped me out on some cases, but we haven't talked in a while. She was hoping to get a legitimate job last I heard, in order to have a steadier income," Sherlock said, snapping the laptop lid closed. "I also want to stop at the station to pick up a box that Goldburg promised he'd have ready for me," he added, setting the computer on a nearby chair before standing up. Glancing at Joan, he added, "You might want to hurry up, Goldburg has a limited time frame this morning before he goes to Brooklyn. Something about a family emergency, a cousin flew in last night."

"Wait. Just last night, you were accusing him of using me to get information. Now _you_ know what he's doing this morning?" Joan asked, frowning.

"Oh, I called him a couple hours ago to ask for a few things that we'll need for this particular case, and he told me he couldn't meet me after eight," Sherlock said, glancing at the clock. "Which leaves us with forty-five minutes before he becomes unavailable. If you want to come along, you'd better get ready now."

Joan glanced at the clock, and then sighed. "I hate to think what time it was when you called him. Let me get my coffee first and then I'll get dressed," she said before going back into the kitchen for the desired coffee.

"We're going to need more milk or cream or whatever it is that you usually use for your coffee!" Sherlock called after here.

"Wait, I don't-" she stopped speaking, deciding that she'd find out for herself what he meant by that.

Fifteen minutes and an empty cream container later, they were in a taxi headed for the police station. Joan noticed that Sherlock still had the iPhone from the day before, and was fiddling with it in an attempt to break the passcode. "It finally stopped receiving calls and texts last night, I suspect the phone's owner was finally able to alert the accomplice and inform him or her of the error," Sherlock said, pausing only when he saw that he had only one attempt left before the phone erased its memory. "Well, we'll have to wait for Winfield now, he loves playing with this sort of thing," he said, putting the phone into an interior pocket.

"What makes you so sure it's an accomplice?" Joan asked.

"Because it's a killer's phone that was on his person. He's going to be careful so that we don't trace him via his mum or girlfriend," Sherlock said as the taxi pulled up to the station. "Or worse, his enemy tracks him down through his family. They're not getting along; instead, it's getting to the point where I might just wait for one to finish off the other. It's likely that they will before Saturday," he added, paying the driver before climbing out with Joan behind him. "We'd be lucky only if Miller's murderer was the one who died and the other lost all interest in the case."

"How likely is that?" Joan asked as they approached the front doors.

"Not very. I don't know enough about the second sniper to make a guess. If Carlson's records are accurate, the second sniper was not present for his death…" Sherlock's voice trailed off when he realized something. "Why wasn't the second sniper present for Carlson's death, but was there at Miller's?" he asked, turning to Joan. "More importantly, what was it about Carlson's death that triggered the sniper's appearance at Miller's?"

"Are you even sure that Carlson was the trigger? What if he's been after the first sniper for a while now and they just happened to cross paths at Miller's?" Joan asked.

"Because the second sniper knew to be at Miller's before the first one struck," Sherlock replied, grinning broadly now. "Remember, that neighbor saw him climbing up the fire escape. This of course tells us that Chaz is definitely catering to more than just drug addicts. Whether or not the assistance was intentional remains to be seen."

"If we continue that theory," Joan said, "Then the second sniper could have noticed the article in the paper about Carlson's death, and realized that his nemesis was working on the revenge for the first slight."

"Which means that the second sniper is following the story in the papers." With that, Sherlock all but ran the rest of the way to the station entrance, Joan close behind. "I need to see a copy of the article we put out for both Carlson and Miller, maybe ask another person following the story but doesn't know the rest of the details. See what they glean from it," he said as the two of them walked through the station, Sherlock neatly dodging the receptionist desk and heading toward the back where Goldburg's office was located. "Maybe Goldburg knows where the article is…"

"Or we can check the apartment for our copy. I don't usually recycle newspapers for a while in case you need them for something," Joan replied as Sherlock spotted and walk over to the door, knocking as soon as he was within range.

Goldburg gave them both a tired smile as he opened the door. "Mr. Holmes, Ms. Watson. Do come in please, and excuse the mess," he said, stepping back to allow them inside. "Mr. Holmes, everything you requested is on the desk. For the love of God, please don't tell Captain Gregson that I was the one who gave you unrestricted access to this stuff," he added as Sherlock walked over to the cardboard box on the desk and began examining the contents.

"I really hope he didn't wake you up too early?" Joan said, turning to Goldburg, who shrugged.

"Nah, it wasn't an issue. I took the red-eye shift, so I was falling asleep when my cousin, Nicole, called to say she was flying in because she was having an emergency and wanted to meet. Sherlock called fifteen to twenty minutes later, so I was already awake," he said, glancing back at Sherlock. "Need anything else, Mr. Holmes? I can mail that to your apartment if that's easier for you."

"Please do. All of this should do it," Sherlock said, pulling out a slim brown package and putting it into a coat pocket. "Thank- oh wait, there is one more thing." He turned around and said, "The newspaper article with Carlson's death, where is it?"

"In his case box. Why do you need it?" Goldburg asked, polite despite the confusion settling on his face as Sherlock reached for the box in question and began rifling through it.

"We think that the second sniper used the article to locate the next victim," Joan explained as Sherlock finally found the article in question.

"How could that have happened? We were careful when writing it, just stating the facts as we saw it. No details, no theories, nothing else," Goldburg said, frowning. "Perhaps the sniper knew someone at the news station, got the details that way?"

"Or here at the police station, that would make more sense." Sherlock turned back to Goldburg and said, "Who in this building has unrestricted access to _all_ files?"

"Well, Captain Gregson, and anyone on equal or higher rank with him. If you go down the ladder from there, the only individuals would be Nina Hernandez, Mike Jones, Tabby Walker and me. Um, Hernandez and Jones are already working on this case by investigating potential victims, Hernandez has three, and Jones has four," Goldburg said, looking worried. "Should I start a discreet inquiry?"

"Not yet." Sherlock paused, and then asked, "I assume you haven't leaked anything?"

"You tell me," Goldburg said, looking faintly annoyed. Stepping back to allow Sherlock an unobstructed view, he said, "If I had the time to be leaking information, it would be time well _wasted_, given the insane amount of paperwork I have to slog through every day."

"And since you moved here recently, you wouldn't have had enough time for a hired killer to first observe you so that he felt he could trust you. It would take longer for you since not only are you an officer, but you've been working too closely with Gregson for _any_ hired killer to feel comfortable working with. Congratulations," Sherlock said somewhat dryly. "I'll let you know what I get out of today, I have a friend who might know where Chaz is."

"We're talking to him again?" Goldburg asked, bemused as Sherlock started heading for the door again.

"Off the record, we are. He has to have his list of clients, which, once cross-listed with what we have, should make finding the potential victims easier," Sherlock said, pausing by the door. He held up the slim brown package from earlier and said, "I'm ready just in case."

"All right. Do let us know if you find him, we need his address on record in case we manage to get another arrest warrant for him," Goldburg replied before turning back to his desk.

"Duly noted. Watson, let's go."

"Good luck with your cousin," Joan said before leaving as well.

She waited until they were out on the curbside in front of the station, trying to hail another cab before asking, "Dare I ask what's in the package?"

"Police badges for you and me. Extreme cases only, they'll hold up against anyone except another officer. As for the box, that had everything we'll need to continue working without the interference of NYPD, I can't keep waiting for them constantly when I need to act _now_. Goldburg, luckily, seemed to be running with the same line of thought," Sherlock said as a taxi pulled up. Opening one of the back doors, he said, "Central Park, please." Then he clambered in, Joan close behind him.

"Is it all right to ask what _exactly_ was in the box?" Joan asked in a soft voice, careful to keep an eye on the driver as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"Badges, blank warrants, handcuffs, a firearm, and a few more little things that could help. Granted, I only asked for two badges, but it's worth noting the extra items. Either it's a precaution or he genuinely believes that we'll need them, that's it potentially more dangerous than we all initially assumed," Sherlock said. "Keep an eye out, hm?"

"Will you be using the firearm?" Joan asked, keeping her voice down.

"Hopefully, I won't have to. But we are prodding into a feud between two trained killers who rely on remaining unseen to survive." Glancing at her with a frown, he asked, "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"No, it was never necessary," Joan replied, a shadow of concern crossing her face. "Why?"

"Future reference," Sherlock replied before looking out the cab window.

When they arrived to Central Park, Sherlock handed over the fare plus extra, promising to pay more if the driver agreed to wait for them. Pacified, the driver agreed and kept the 'Occupied' sign lit as the two of them got out, leaving him at the curb.

Joan followed Sherlock, trusting that he knew where they were going. The park was mostly devoid of people except for the occasional jogger or dog walker. Sherlock led the two of them down to Turtle Pond, where Joan could see several adults watching a group of children testing the ice on the pond's surface near the embankment. "Is your friend Rikki with them?" she whispered as they stopped at the top of the gentle slope.

"Yes, it looks like she was able to get that job, she's the blond on the edge of the group," Sherlock said, nodding toward where Joan could see three adults huddled together for warmth. The blond in question was on the side closest to the two of them. "Wait here, she won't talk to me about Chaz if you're there because she doesn't trust strangers," he said, gesturing to the nearby bench.

Joan nodded and did as he asked, but kept a careful eye on him all the same.

He approached the blond carefully, and then said something; she jumped before turning around to face him, fully prepared to tell him off, but stopped when she saw who it was. Joan watched as the two of them talked, and then the woman tapped the shoulder of her companion and leaned in to whisper something before standing up and walking over to where Sherlock was standing. The two of them talked before he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and then went back to join her companions.

Joan waited patiently as Sherlock walked back to her, standing up only when he came close. "Well?" she asked.

"Chaz fled to Brooklyn. Rikki has only spoken to one other person asking for him, but since she didn't trust him, she sent him in the wrong direction," Sherlock said as the two began walking back the way they came.

"Did she describe him? In case he becomes important to the case?"

"No. She didn't recognize him, and forgot him as soon as she sent him away. That is something to keep in mind though, just in the off chance," Sherlock replied. "Chaz is definitely involved though. Whether or not it was intentional or not remains to be seen. Now, for the sake of our safety, please refrain from discussing the case while we're in the taxi. Cabbies are often overlooked and or disregarded, which make them an excellent source of information to anyone who pays well enough," he added as they approached their still-waiting cab and opened the door.

Joan nodded and got in after him.

The third leg of the trip was in relative silence. Joan read some old case files on Chaz that Sherlock had managed to procure from somewhere. Sherlock remained on his phone, his frown deepening with each text message. At one point, he even set the phone down in thinly veiled frustration before picking it up almost right away again. "Either he's genuinely confused, or being deliberately obtuse," he muttered almost to himself, typing out a response to the next question. "Deliberately obtuse, there is _no_ way he can be missing all of this, even all the way over on his side of the ocean…"

"Family?" Joan guessed.

"It's times like this when I wonder why my father couldn't have been an only child," he replied, scowling at the next message. "The shorthand texting bothers Mycroft, so there's that at least…"

Joan merely smiled before going back to looking at the text before her.

The taxi eventually dropped them off in front of a nondescript blue house with a white picket fence surrounding a neat, square lawn. Sherlock hummed in approval as he looked up and down the street of similarly designed houses. "Hiding in plain sight, on the outskirts of Brooklyn. I might want to talk to the neighbors after we talk to Chaz," he said, gesturing for Joan to follow him. "Don't mention that we're here on police business, I decided that portraying ourselves as 'enforcers' might make him panic and less cooperative. I'm going to tell him the whole situation and why his cooperation could save lives."

"Are you sure he'll listen?" Joan asked as Sherlock knocked on the door.

"He didn't run the last time while we were talking to him, I doubt he'll run now," he said, looking up when they both heard the scraping of the door unlocking.

Chaz looked more ruffled and worn out than Joan remembered him, his clothes were even the same from the last day she saw him. His eyes widened when he saw the two of them through the crack of the door, and almost immediately began to shut the door again.

"Chaz, Chaz, wait. Listen to me," Sherlock said, sticking a foot in the door. "Listen, I am coming to you as a civilian this time, and we desperately need your help in finding Carlson's killer. He's struck again, and he's going to strike again if we don't find his next victim." Lowering his voice, Sherlock added, "I can even arrange for witness protection if you help us."

Chaz quietly regarded him, and then checked up and down the street from his limited view. Then he opened the door wider, gesturing for them to come inside quickly. "Hurry," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "I don't know how much time I have left."

Sherlock nodded, and then ushered Joan in first.

Joan sincerely hoped that they weren't about to walk into a trap, and if they were, Sherlock would be able to spot it in time.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, Real Life hit me hard.**


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